


Let the Sun Fade Out

by nothingislittle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Morning Sex, Obsessed Sherlock, One Shot, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Smut, Still a little bit of plot, Top John, bottomlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He could warm the sun itself, Sherlock thinks, could heat their flat with just his presence, could brighten the room with one dazzling smile or just the sparkling in his eyes. Everything hurts when John looks this beautiful, but it’s a dulcet, aching pain, one that consumes Sherlock from the inside, that sends soft pangs through his abdomen and lodges a lump solidly in his throat. John glows, he glitters, he’s light itself, Sherlock thinks, and doesn’t even bother to scold himself for exaggerating, because he’s not, he’s not, John is everything, he’s beautiful and he shines, he’s everything."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Sun Fade Out

**Author's Note:**

> My very first fluff, guys. Squee on.

Dawn streams through the open window, golden and sweet, enveloping them in a pool of warmth and illuminating the dust motes that flit through the air. _Dust is elegant_ , he thinks to himself as he watches them floating around, occasionally landing on his nose. He twitches it now, sniffs, turns over.

John lays next to him, sprawled on his back, arms splayed above his head, bathed in the sunlight, emanating warmth. He could warm the sun itself, Sherlock thinks, could heat their flat with just his presence, could brighten the room with one dazzling smile or just the sparkling in his eyes. Everything hurts when John looks this beautiful, but it’s a dulcet, aching pain, one that consumes Sherlock from the inside, that sends soft pangs through his abdomen and lodges a lump solidly in his throat. John glows, he glitters, he’s light itself, Sherlock thinks, and doesn’t even bother to scold himself for exaggerating, because he’s not, he’s not, John is everything, he’s beautiful and he shines, he’s _everything_.

Sherlock thinks that his love for John could easily spell his downfall but it would be such a soaring fall he doesn’t even care.

He tugs gently — trying not to wake him — at the bedspread John has pulled up to his chin, so that his bare chest and stomach are uncovered, tan and brown and soft and warm. He slips his long digits through John’s golden chest hair, feeling it run through his fingers, downy yet coarse, both soft and tough, just like John and he breathes deeply, attempting to imbed the scent of the room, of John, the combination of his sheets and John’s body deep in his lungs and his memory. It’s not the first time Sherlock has had John in his bed, but he can never shake the fear it will be that last, especially in the moment when John rises and walks across the room, stretching and disappearing into the bathroom. It hurts to see him go but Sherlock always chokes it down because it’s _infantile_ to miss someone in the next room.

But it doesn’t matter.

Sherlock misses John in the next room, in the next chair, he misses him now, while he sleeps. The only way to dull the ache of missing him is to bury himself in John — or vice versa — and even then there is an inherent fear that the connection is only tenuous, ephemeral, flighty. Sherlock tries to compartmentalize the fear because it does him no good, but he doubts it will ever be completely eliminated.

The light is spreading further across the room, the day will start soon and Sherlock will have to watch John leave his bed. He never wants him to go, but Sherlock understands — pretends to understand. Tries to. John’s mouth is hanging open and Sherlock smiles at the utter abandon with which he sleeps, lolling and open, receptive even in unconsciousness. So very John. He places a soft kiss just below John’s belly button and whispers,

“I love you.”

He kisses him again, above the belly button, and whispers it again, and then on the ribs and his sternum and up to his collar bone, dipping his tongue into his left supraclavicular fossa as he goes, breathing _I love you_ s after every kiss, continuing upward until he reaches John’s face where his kisses his jaw and his cheeks and his nose and his eyelids and the corner of his mouth, which is turning up.

“You know, I _am_ trying to sleep.”

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers and kisses John on the tip of his chin.

“Git.” John sighs happily and tips his face down into a sleepy kiss, thick and warm, languid, soft. He opens his eyes once their lips part, and Sherlock sees vast, sparkling oceans of blue and his breath hitches just so.

“You’re so beautiful, John.”

John chuckles and shakes his head, disbelieving and flattered, flushing just barely. Sherlock is always in awe of him and he never believes it — that’s just how it is between them, how it works. Sherlock traces his first finger over John’s eyebrows and eyelashes, making him blink and John stares back at him, grinning and waking slowly.

“You’re always so soft in the morning, Sherlock.”

“Mmm,” He continues to touch and marvel at the details that compose John Watson, as he so often does.

“Why aren’t you like that,” John gestures vaguely toward the window. “Out there?”

Pulling his hand back, Sherlock turns onto his stomach and tucks it under his chin, propping himself up on elbows.

“Wouldn’t be the same.”

John reaches to him with his left arm, runs his fingers across those high cheekbones and full lips, still smiling, always smiling, warm and gentle, fondness radiating off of him in waves. Sherlock basks in it, absorbs it like his own personal photosynthesis.

“S’pose not.”

Now Sherlock smiles back, imagines behaving the way he does with John, in the morning, in bed, behaving that way at a crime scene. He chortles softly at the idea.

“Come here.”

John is pulling at his wrists and hoists him so their chests are pressed together, Sherlock on top, and John glides the tip of his nose back and forth across the seam of Sherlock’s lips, wrapping his strong arms around his back. John likes to go slowly, to tease it out of him, especially in the morning — and it drives Sherlock absolutely mad.

Calloused fingers rub into the muscles of Sherlock’s back, firm and strong, until Sherlock’s mouth falls open. John leans up, pulling Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth, worrying it with his tongue, nibbling softly, while his hands drift lower to dig possessively into the curve of Sherlock arse and Sherlock can’t take it, pushes forward to kiss John properly, hungrily lapping at his mouth, and John laughs low in his chest, always proud to push Sherlock over the edge. “Get on top properly, love.” John whispers lowly between languid kisses and Sherlock groans, kicking the blanket down and away, lifting his right leg over John’s hips and hoisting himself up and over, so pelvises align and cocks brush lightly together, making John sigh softly and Sherlock bite his already swollen lip.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock drawls, almost drunkenly, as he lowers himself down, pressing together, reaching his hand forward to hold them both in one large hand.

“Ahh, yes, Sherlock,” The combination of John’s small word of approval and his hips thrusting up into his hand and against his own cock makes Sherlock shiver lightly and pre-come leak obscenely from the head of his prick. He stays still, breathing deeply as John continues to rock forward and up, the friction sending fire through his stomach and stars bursting behind his eyes.

“You like it like this, don’t you?” John huffs salaciously, pumping into Sherlock’s fist and Sherlock can’t talk. John is too good at this, is always so good at stopping Sherlock’s mind with only a few well placed touches and turns of phrase. Sherlock pushes back against John minutely, as much as he can manage, dropping his head down, forehead on John’s shoulder, hearing him hiss by his ear at Sherlock’s movement.

“That’s it, Sherlock, go ahead. Just roll your hips forward, just like that, ahh, perfect, Sherlock, that’s _perfect_.” Sherlock begins to take control at John’s instruction, helpless to ignore a directive from him, and John stills, grasping at Sherlock’s arse, moaning and turning to bite into Sherlock’s earlobe and neck, all the while praising his efforts, encouraging him with soft growls.

Sherlock’s own heart is starting to pound within his chest, like it’s straining to be get free, to get closer to John, and Sherlock bites and sucks bruises on John’s shoulder, the combination of physical and emotional sensation tearing him apart and then John is pulling at him, separating his arse cheeks and running his fingers slightly over his hole. Sherlock bites hard, then, and John calls his name loudly.

“Do you want it this morning, love?”

Sherlock groans.

“Because I’d love to give it to you, love to take you until you're whimpering beneath me.”

He whimpers now, with the fleeting thought he’s bound to be crying at the end of this, while he nods his head vigorously against John’s unscarred shoulder, pushing back against his hand. John brings fingers up to his mouth and spits on them, loud and obscene, reaching back around to slip his middle finger, now wet with saliva, inside Sherlock. He leans into it, gasping John’s name and squeezing their cocks together, making John’s hips stutter upward. He pulls his finger out and shifts Sherlock off of him to the side, breathing hard and kissing him softly on up his jawline, once, twice. Sherlock is already limp and pliant, trying to catch his breath. He looks up at John who is attempting to position them, but Sherlock isn’t moving very readily. John is chucking again.

“Come on, on your back, there you go.” Sherlock allows John to twist and push gently but firmly at his body until he’s laying on his back in the middle of the bed.

“It doesn’t take much to wring you out first thing in the morning, does it?” John smiles down at him as he reaches across to retrieve the bottle from the nightstand and Sherlock is mildly offended.

“Don’t sound so smug, John. It’s a ‘turn off,’ as you would say.”

Kneeling between his legs, John raises his eyebrows as he pours lubricant into his palm. Smiling smugly, he wraps his fist around Sherlock’s cock and begins to pull it at it deftly, fast and relentless and Sherlock huffs and arches his back.

“Liar.” John smirks. He tortures Sherlock a moment more before he dips his fingers down between Sherlock’s legs and slowly works him open, starting with two digits because he knows Sherlock likes it when he moves just barely too fast, hurting him just enough.

“John, _please_ , do it _now_.” Sherlock begs, eyes shut tight, bursting from sensation.

“Shhh, love, not quite yet.”

Sherlock spreads his legs further, and John slides in his third finger, spreading all three, stretching the muscle gently and insistently. “That’s it, Sherlock, rock into me, you’re doing so well. Just a bit longer.” John is leaning over him, kissing up and down his torso and Sherlock is already whimpering insistently while John fucks him with only his fingers, and when his lips part over Sherlock’s right nipple, his back arches again and they both whine loudly. He bites and sucks and then blows gently to soothe before starting to lick and bite again. Sherlock is aching, he feels wrecked, crazed, grinding down onto John’s thick fingers, trying to get them to brush his prostate, but they’re not quite long enough and if John doesn’t fuck him soon, he’s genuinely worried he’ll begin to cry.

“John, please, I need it, I need you.”

“Alright, alright, I’ve got you,” John soothes, kissing again at Sherlock’s nipple, slipping his fingers out. Sherlock attempts to regulate his breathing as he lays still, grasping his sheets in his fists, watching John slick his hand up and down his own cock, pushing into his own fist slightly, looking down at Sherlock and biting his own lip as he does.

“John!”

His eyelids are drooping heavily, and he’s looking down at Sherlock hungrily, in the way that laces just a trace of fear into the lust that curls inside of Sherlock, heavy like smoke, like smog, and he wants John to draw it out of him, to make him shout and writhe. John lifts him by his thighs, just so, his hips reach up off the bed, resting on John’s bent thighs, and then John is tracing the tip of his dripping prick across Sherlock’s hole, teasing him, wet and warm. He pushes in slowly, holding his breath, Sherlock notes, as just the head of John’s dick slides in. Sherlock’s body always has one moment of protest, of panic, and he feels it now, eyes open wide, scrabbling at the sheets and reaching up to push at John, but John knows and grabs at Sherlock’s wrists.

“Shh, love, shh, it’s okay.” He holds his wrists in one hand and runs the other up and down Sherlock’s forearms. “Just breathe, deep, breathe and let me in,” John whispers, kissing at Sherlock’s fingers, sucking the middle on his left hand all the way into his mouth.

That does it and the panic subsides as Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling of John’s tongue against the underside of his finger and his thick cock sliding all the way home. He stays buried for a moment, lapping at Sherlock in his mouth, sucking at him as if it were his prick, pulling it out and pushing it back in, slowly until Sherlock is arching his back and twisting his hips, spurring John to movement. He begins to move, sliding slowly out of Sherlock at the same time he lets the hand drop from his mouth. John’s head tips backward and he moans loudly, deeply, sounds almost like an animal. He grabs at Sherlock’s hips and slowly starts to build up speed.

“Sherlock, how, ahh, how are you always so _tight_?”

Sherlock shakes his head, has no answer, has no words at all, is always lost to reason or any normal human function while he watches and feels John moving in and out of him, pivoting his hips just enough to finally rub against the spot Sherlock wants him to hit the most and Sherlock sucks in an entire lungful of air all at once. This is it, the moment Sherlock feels _right_ , feels whole, and he tries to hold on to it as long as he can, but John is moving faster and faster and he falls forward to kiss Sherlock hungrily and he knows it will be over soon, but still he wrenches his eyes open to observe John as much as he can, enveloped in crystalline radiance, burning brightly before him, around him, _inside_ of him.

John warms Sherlock’s cold and distant center from the core and he comes inside of him and Sherlock can feel it, every burst of heat, surging through John’s skin into his and then he’s pulling at Sherlock, working him up and down, but it’s not fast, or hard. John is pumping Sherlock’s cock slowly, agonizingly, panting for breath and Sherlock’s eyes are full of tears because he’s so close, so _close_ but John has him skirting the very edge of it and it’s too much and Sherlock feels full where he normally feels empty, hot where he’s usually shivering, and he looks in John’s eyes and feels like he _belongs_ where he always felt left out.

“God, you’re so perfect, Sherlock, you’re everything. Come for me, let me see you.” His whispers are reverent and when he drags his thumb over Sherlock’s frenulum one last time, that’s it. It rolls over Sherlock like a wave, like high tide, starting at the bottom and sliding up until his hips are arched up off of John and his back lifts away from the sweaty sheets and he feels himself spilling over John’s fist, onto both of their stomachs, and he’s pumping into John’s fist and it lasts and lasts but still ends so quickly and he finds himself slumped onto the bed, eyes shut, sweat drying on his brow, the breeze from the open window cooling the heated room.

John is still bent over him, still inside of him, and Sherlock lifts his weak arms to place his hands in John’s hair. John slips out of him and scoots back so that Sherlock’s arse and hips are flat on the bed, and then slides up, the mess between them sticky and spreading, but ignored, straddling one of Sherlock’s legs, so he can plant wet kisses all over his face.

“I love you, too,” John breathes into his mouth, both of their eyes closed.

“Git.”

Sherlock is already starting to feel hollow again, almost already missing John, knowing any minute he’ll stand and head for the shower. The kisses help some.

The softly repeated _I love you_ s over every bit of skin John can reach with kisses help more.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> teapotsubtext.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks to allonsys_girl, my conductor of light, for betaing!


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